


Home

by passivagrestiv



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Amusement Park, F/M, Thunderstorms, drenched kitties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 10:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passivagrestiv/pseuds/passivagrestiv
Summary: 'As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?'





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was supposed to be for Adrienette April, but my laptop crashed. It's a good thing I had it backed up but unfortunately, fixing my laptop consumed a lot of time. This one shot may be turned into a chaptered fic, so stay tuned.  
> So, I hope you enjoy this! And now that season two is here, let's celebrate!

"'Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone  
Is where you go when you're alone  
Is where you go to rest your bones  
It's not just where you lay your head  
It's not just where you make your bed  
As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?  
Home"

- _Home_ , Gabrielle Aplin

 

“You’re _really_ sure, girl? It’s raining cats and dogs outside.”

A fond smile graces Marinette’s pink lips as her feet hurriedly shuffle down the steps, her black heels clinking against the wood. There are two umbrellas she retrieved from her room. She gives a skeptical Alya the black-spotted red one and carefully snatches the white package on the counter with her now free hand.

“For the last time, you’re exaggerating, Alya. It’s just a drizzle,” she says to her best friend and raises the bundled pastry. “Maman also asked me to deliver this marble cake to a street near yours.”

The aspiring journalist sighs in defeat and complies, “Okay, you win.”

Marinette giggles sweetly, her black ruffle skirt swishing as she makes her way to the main door. She opens it, a cold zephyr kissing her skin at once and blowing her freely cascading locks that are as dark as the skies above. Rain softly patters on the pavement and she marvels at the beautiful symphony of nature.

Gingerly, she opens the black umbrella with her left hand and feels the sudden rush of nostalgia wash over her. She pauses, smiling wistfully, and thoughts of emerald eyes, hopeful yet burdened with a hidden pain, swirl in her mind, but that moment is short-lived, however, when Alya gently taps her shoulder.

“What’s that smile about, Mari?” Her eyebrows are crunched in concern.

Marinette only shakes her head to assure her best friend, a bright beam replacing her previous pensive one.

“Nothing.” And she instantaneously talks about their day before Alya presses her with more questions.

It’s another Saturday and instead of helping out in the bakery the whole day, getting flour, frosting and all kinds of ingredients all over herself, she spent it with Alya in their promised girls’ day out which resulted from the endless stream of apologies the blogger has given to the designer these past few weeks.

_“How can you ever forgive me, Mari?”_

_“I’m such a horrible best friend.”_

_“I don’t deserve a cinnamon roll like you.”_

Alya always expressed her guilt about not fulfilling her ‘best-friend duties’ because she has been too focused on her boyfriend, Nino. But Marinette is always amused whenever she does and simply hugs her to ease her paranoia, emitting another speech of worth and regret from the aspiring journalist.

The designer truthfully understands. With their steadily blooming relationship, time is a dire factor, and she is not jealous of Nino or anything. He is a good guy, an incorrigible fact that was established in all those years of friendship with him. So what if Alya chooses to bond with him on weekends? It’s not like she isn’t there whenever she needs her. And besides, to Marinette, a loved one’s happiness matters the most and her best friend deserves all the joy in the world because she has always been by her side.

Their Saturday date had been nothing but bucket loads of fun and to top that, there had been no akumas in sight. In the morning, they went to the amusement park to try on the new Ladybug roller coaster that’s only reserved for customers above the age of thirteen.

The long queue didn’t matter at all, they were chatting to pass time. If any patience was tested, the ride made up for it. It was _wonderful_. Alya had been screaming in terror and glee while Marinette laughed at her comical expression throughout the whole ride.

Despite her incessant protests, Alya dragged her to Chat Noir’s Tunnel of Love after. The shy attendant had been indiscreetly staring at their interlocked hands while he fumbled to assist them to their assigned cat boat and stuttered out the safety reminders of the ride. When their boat finally waded along the tranquil current, Alya lifted their interlaced fingers and glanced back at him.

“Love wins, geezer!” she shouted and the girls soon erupted into a fit of chortles when his jaw dropped in astonishment. The hilarity was fleeting to Marinette though as she blanched at every Chat Noir painting on the wall. (There were twenty-four of them from both sides of the tunnel, including a very disturbing one in which he had a flirtatious wink and a red rose between his teeth.) It was Alya’s turn to snicker at her this time as she pulled out her smart phone and recorded every disgusted shiver of the designer whenever Chat Noir’s amorous voice echoed throughout the spacious tunnel: _“Je taime.”_

To cheer up Marinette after ‘the most horrific ride that ever existed’, Alya once more demonstrated her incredible prowess at shooting games. She went easy on the store owner this time to appease her best friend’s pleas and only won a pair of Ladybug and Chat Noir friendship bracelets. Alya claimed the one with the ladybug charm of course while Marinette wore hers around her left wrist, admiring how the green-eyed black cat charm glinted in the sunlight. (Secretly, she really liked it though.)

Alya coughed to gain Marinette’s attention and raised her fist, her light brown eyes sparkled with humor and playfulness. The designer blinked at her, but chuckled in realization and instantly collided her fist with her best friend’s.

_“Bien joue!”_

They had lunch at their favorite pizza parlor and for the nth time, Alya chastised her for her choice of flavor. (“Those are pineapples, Marinette! Are you even human?” “Yes, Alya. I see pineapples and I love them. Your best friend’s an alien, by the way.”)  Afternoon was spent at the movie theater, watching the popular musical everyone raved about in the internet (“La La Land, Mari.” “La La —what?”) and holding back the teary-eyed blogger who raged about the ending (“Alya, calm —” “What the —what the hell was that? They can’t just leave me here in tears! I demand a refund!”). 

Marinette tried to soothe Alya with deliberately awful impressions of the Parisian heroine on the way to the bakery. (“Bye, bye, little butter —” “You’re making me cry again, Mari.”) Thankfully, Marinette’s father lightened up the aspiring journalist’s spirits during dinner. Sabine served spaghetti and garlic bread and without missing a beat, Tom’s pasta puns successfully cracked Alya up every time. (“Wanna hear more?” “She had _enough_ , Papa.”) And to conclude the enjoyable date, the girls rewatched their beloved Princess Bride, their stomachs kept satisfied by the bakery’s leftovers. (Sniff. “Never gets old.” Another sniff. “True.”)

Their animated reminiscence of the day’s activities has finally come to an end when they have to part ways. Alya approaches to hug her, saving the designer the trouble because both her hands are full —a white parcel on her left and a black umbrella on the other.

She pulls away to flash her a grateful smile.“I can’t wait for our next girls’ day out, Mari.”

Marinette’s beam matches her intensity. “Me too, Alya. And next time, be sure not to choose another musical, okay?”

Alya laughs, throwing her head back. “Sure. And I’ll be returning this on Monday,” gesturing the umbrella in her grip. “Bye, girl!” She throws her a flying kiss and dashes down the street. The designer waves at her and waits until her figure reduces into a dark blur before turning her heels to walk on the adjacent one.

Marinette looks up when the soft thumps on her umbrella increase and frowns lightly at the tumultuous clouds that swallow what’s left of the waxing moon. She glances around and does not question when she finds not a single soul on the residential street. Most families hit the hay at this late hour, especially with the cold, sleep-beguiling weather.

She feels a shuffle in her pink pouch and it pops open, a magenta kwami peering up at her with an adorable grin.

“I’m glad you had fun, Marinette.”

The corners of the heroine’s lips lift as well. “Thanks, Tikki. Hope the cookies provided you with enough company. Hawkmoth seems to be weirdly inactive today.”

“Absolutely sumptuous as always, Marinette,” the tiny god nods enthusiastically. “How considerate of him. Though, we could use a break every once in a while.”

“You’re right,” Marinette agrees with a resigned sigh. Her gaze settles on the cold metal that presses on the skin of her left wrist, the Chat Noir bracelet. Watching the black cat charm swing from side to side, she ponders on the whereabouts of her partner.

“I hope wherever Chat is now, he’s happy.”

Tikki’s clear eyes soften. “Marinette —”

A powerful gust cuts the tiny god’s sentence and blows over them harshly, carding through the girl’s midnight blue locks and her ruffle skirt. “I better hurry up with this delivery, Tikki, before the rain worsens.”

The kwami bobs her head reluctantly, quivering at the chilly wind. “Be careful.” Then she retreats to the interior of her charge’s warm, sugary purse.

Marinette quickens her pace and halts when her feet reaches the welcome mat of the house with the number fifty-seven etched on the door. She raps it three times and the door opens after a couple of seconds, revealing an elderly woman dressed in her sleepwear.

Mrs. Chauvin brightens up at the sight of the beautiful girl and utters her sincere gratitude as she takes the cake from her and hands her the payment, saying that she would surprise her husband when he wakes up in the morning of his birthday. The designer’s heart melts for the lovely old woman and she politely declines her offer of staying until the downpour ceases. Her parents would worry.

With a wave, she scuttles back to the sidewalk, feeling the goosebumps rise on her skin from the lack of a warmer apparel. In her rush to walk Alya home, she forgot to bring a jacket. She shrugged that thought off half an hour ago, assuming that the skies would clear up soon.

But no, it doesn’t seem that way now and when she follows the busy route she knows that is safer during late nights, flashes of lightning cackle across the heavens and roars of thunder resonate, the ground shaking in its wake. Almost immediately, cruel torrential rain splashes down on her shuddering form, yet she continues to scurry past the evening shops and diners which are gradually filled by adults who seek shelter from the sudden storm.

The wind howls a haunting tune and Marinette curses her rotten luck. Despite the protection provided by the umbrella, the downpour manages to soak most parts of her body. Her fringes are damp. Her ruffle skirt has darkened into a deeper shade of black and her mint sleeves persist to transition into forest green. With every step, water splatters on her thighs and calves, and she struggles to keep her feet from sliding off her wedges or else she would trip and crash on the pavement.

By the sixth deafening clap of thunder, Marinette relieves her reddening feet of the annoying shoes, carrying them as she runs barefoot. Her soles touch the icy ground and she tries to suppress her shivers, all the while desperately catching her breath.

She is beyond soaked now, her hair dripping wet as well as the lower half of her freezing figure. It’s no surprise if she ends up in bed the next day, drowning in coughs and wheezes.

The designer sneezes as if her body assures her that her previous thought will be fulfilled. She tries to dwell in the humor of this, but her desire to go home burns brighter as she covers more distance. She wants nothing more than to lay beneath the covers of her bed where it’s safe and sound, relishing in the inextinguishable warmth of her family, including Tik—

“Tikki!”

Marinette gasps, skidding into a halt and opening her purse hastily.

“Oh my god. Tikki, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

The kwami languidly blinks up at her, obviously tipsy from the dash, and smiles lopsidedly.

“I’m okay, Marinette. Just a bit shaken, is all,” she slurs slowly.

“No, you’re not okay.” Her holder shakes her head furiously, sulking in regret. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk from now on.”

The tiny god hums in response and with that, Marinette gingerly closes the pouch, settles it at her side and begins moving at a measured pace, cautious not to disturb her friend. She can’t believe at how thoughtless she had been. Tikki could have been seriously hurt and all she was thinking about was herself.

Lighting alights the sky, snapping her out of her bubble of self-blame, and Marinette watches as it glides above the rooftops.

 _Right_. She knocks her temple with a fist in epiphany. If only she had thought to transform after delivering the cake. She could’ve been home by now and Tikki wouldn’t have suffered in her rash exploits. Yes, there might be a slight possibility that she would turn into a toasted bug, though still it would have been quicker. But now, it’s entirely hopeless. Her imprudence made Tikki too weak for transformation. _Stupid. Stupid, Marinette._

Thunder rumbles once more, the ground beneath her feet trembling with the mighty boom, and Marinette muses that she deserves to be caught up in the downpour, feeling the striking coldness of her soggy clothes that inevitably cling to her pale skin. She just hopes that her Maman and Papa’s anger wouldn’t rival this raging storm.

“Meow.”

Marinette stops in her tracks. A cat is blocking her passage, gazing at her inquisitively. She blinks. What’s a cat doing in the middle of a rain? Weren’t they supposed to hate water or something?

But it’s not just any cat —a black one with glowing emerald eyes and ears pressed down its head. Her heart clenches at the familiarity. Is this an omen? Is her kitty somewhere in this thunderstorm —all drenched and alone?

She crouches and lifts a hand to pet it, offering it warmth, but the enigmatic cat yowls at her and starts to walk away, its tail flicking from side to side.

“Wait!” Marinette follows suit, tipping her umbrella so that it could also share her momentary shelter. The cat purrs appreciatively, but quickens its strides considerably. Beyond intrigued, the designer strives to keep up, stumbling after the feline.

After passing by two soulless streets, the cat saunters into a cramped, dark alley and Marinette hesitates, deliberating against it.

What is she doing? All this silliness for meager curiosity. She should just go home.

She turns to leave but her decision is shattered when the cat meows again, awaiting her, and she thinks she’s imagining it when she picks up the urgency in its tone. Marinette sighs and resumes her pursuit for something she doesn’t even know.

She dismisses the moist grime that sticks to her naked soles as she treads forward, bringing her guard up. The alley is shrouded with darkness yet she could make out some trashes and decrepit household fixtures flushed against the clammy walls. She warily maneuvers around them and feels a sense of dread when she no longer notices the presence of the black cat. 

“Here kitty, kitty,” she coos apprehensively, maintaining a sluggish speed as she nears the end of the alley. But nothing answered, instead lightning blazes once more, coating the passage with a glaring brightness, and that’s moment when her heart freezes.

Another flash. Her breath hitches and she runs.

Another flash. She crashes before the absent, lonely boy who poorly slumps against the wall and shields him under the black umbrella. His emerald eyes, which shade of green she loves the most, stare blankly ahead, stripped of all hope and life. His golden hair misses its usual bounce and his ashen skin is nothing but a shadow of its previously tanned one.

This Adrien is a ghost that continues to fade away from existence and Marinette is terrified, at lost at what to do. Her bluebell eyes fill with tears and with a sob, her fingers release the umbrella and she embraces him with all the love and warmth that she has.

He is cold and limp in her arms and she tightens her grip even more in  fear that he will completely fall, her nose digging into the curve of his neck.

“Oh, Adrien,” she whimpers. “What ever happened to you?”

Silence ensues and then the boy stirs numbly in her hold. “Marinette?”

His voice cracks at the end and she nods fervently. “I’m here, Adrien. You’re not alone.”

Swallowing thickly, he whispers, “You should go home.”

“You _should_ ,” she replies firmly.

He shakes his head, shoulders drooping in defeat and eyes shutting in acceptance.“There is no home for me.”

Marinette’s heart breaks into a million pieces. Adrien should never feel that. No one should ever feel that. There is always a place for everyone, especially _him_ —dear, most especially him who is nothing but amazing, selfless, kind and bears a heart that could never love any less, and if he doesn’t find his place in his empty mansion, then he is welcome in her warm bakery.

_“There is. Come home with me.”_

Adrien’s chest starts, his emerald eyes wide open. “W-What?” he stutters.

She pulls away to show the sincerity swimming in her eyes and takes both of his hands in hers, squeezing his chilly, frail fingers. “Come home with me, Adrien.”

He is left dumbfounded as he stares into her vivid bluebells, then her delicate form, and realizes she is the only color in the darkness, the only one alive. He acutely feels the warmth radiating from her fingers. “Your parents —”

“They won’t mind.” She pauses, giving him a soft, bashful smile before she continues, “They adore you, remember?”

Marinette stands up with wobbling legs, but she is strengthened by her resolve. She takes the discarded umbrella from the ground to protect him from the harsh drops of rain —from everything that keeps him from being himself and holds out her hand.

_“Let’s go home, Adrien.”_

And his tentative hand reaches out to meet hers.

 

 


End file.
